


Solo Flight

by orphan_account



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 22:01:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15649767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Phryne's been away for far too long for Dot's liking. She ponders a news clipping of Amy Johnson's solo flight from England to Australia. Written from a prompt provided in thesecond heat of today's flash fiction challenge.





	Solo Flight

**Author's Note:**

> From this image prompt:
> 
>  
> 
>  

**May, 1930**

Dot hunched over the kitchen table, shoulders taut, an edge of newsprint clasped between thumb and forefinger of each hand. Having already applied paste to the underside of the clipping, it was important to line the corners up just right before pressing the paper firmly on the blank scrapbook page. An authentic reprint of the New York Times was difficult (and expensive) to come by. There was no room for error. 

“Would you prefer carrots or beets with the roast chicken this evening, Dorothy?” Mr. Butler asked, bustling in through the kitchen door. 

A late autumn breeze accompanied Mr. Butler’s entrance, sending fallen leaves swirling about the threshold and disturbing the bottom edge of the newspaper clipping. It curled in upon itself, coming precariously close to adhering to the backside, but Dot avoided catastrophe with a deft flick of the wrist. 

“There,” she spoke, smoothing the newsprint free of any wrinkles. 

“Ah, another report on Amy Johnson’s flight,” Mr. Butler enthused. If he found the intensity with which Dot performed her task even the slightest bit odd, his tone betrayed no judgement. 

“This one’s about the Singapore stop-over two weeks ago,” Dot replied, leafing through the scrapbook pages. “I kept a page open. Miss Fisher would want it to be complete.” 

“I heard on the wireless that she’s received a hero’s welcome in Sydney,” Mr. Butler said, looking over Dot’s shoulder. “Miss Johnson, that is.” 

“Of course,” Dot replied, voice falling. “Today’s post had nothing from Miss Fisher.” 

“Three weeks is not unheard of,” Mr. Butler began, attempting to soothe her concerns. 

Dot interrupted. “I phoned the telegraph office to check whether something had come in but not been delivered. You know how unreliable their new boy has been.” 

“Dorothy,” Mr. Butler began, his tone even but firm. 

Dot stood up from the table now, a flurry of motion as she collected her handbag and hat. “I should go down there myself. Convince them to let me look through the overseas cables.” 

“I’ll make tea first,” Mr. Butler replied. 

“But that will only slow me down,” Dot answered. 

“Perhaps,” he said, gently pulling a chair back from the table. 

Dot did as she was instructed, removing her hat and placing it, slightly askew, on top of scrapbook. 

“I miss her too,” he said, offering a biscuit from the tin. 

“I don’t want to miss her,” Dot replied. “I’m tired of missing her. I want her here. I think I’ve forgotten how to be brave without her.” 

“You haven’t Dorothy,” he said, taking the chair next to hers and placing a fatherly hand on top of hers. “I don’t believe that for a second.” 

Dot smiled meekly, attempting a cheer she didn’t truly feel. 

Mr. Butler pulled the scrapbook between them, pausing at the neatly drawn map of Dutch Indonesia that Dot had expertly copied from an encyclopedia, islands shaded in light green pencil against the deep dark blue of the Java Sea. He traced a finger along the most common flight route — Jakarta, Surabaya, Atambua. He knew the simplicity of the map obscured obvious dangers — hundreds of uncharted smaller islands, miles and miles of open ocean. But Miss Fisher was brave. Miss Fisher was lucky. And Miss Fisher was needed back in Melbourne. 

He chose hope. 

* * *

**Sydney Harbor**

“Telegraph office, please,” the woman requested, stepping into back seat of a waiting cab. 

“Can’t get you downtown,” the cabbie replied. “There’s a big hubbub celebrating that girl pilot.” 

“Amy Johnson?” the woman said, smoothing her black bob as she settled against the worn leather upholstery. “Good for her! We’ve had no communication onboard ship since Port Said. It’s been unbearable.” 

A man in a battered brown fedora joined her in the cab. “Amy Johnson completed her flight,” she enthused as he slid in next to her. “England to Australia in one go, all on her own!” 

The man took her hand and smiled. “Fast and alone,” he quipped. “Not slow and close.” 

She batted his hand and away playfully and smirked, then made up for a it with a quick kiss to his cheek. 

“Closest telegraph office,” she repeated to the cabbie. “And then take us as close as you can to that celebration. Amy Johnson is a remarkable woman.” 


End file.
